


An Exchange of Favors

by LadyBookwormWithTeeth



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, Infidelity, Rumbelle - Freeform, Woobie Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, dirty talking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4433723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBookwormWithTeeth/pseuds/LadyBookwormWithTeeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an attempt to save his marriage, Mr. Gold asks Belle to teach him to talk dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Maddiebonanafana

This was what desperation looked like: to stand in front of a beautiful woman about to burst into laughter because he was running out of options. Gold gripped his cane until his knuckles turned white and awaited the imminent humiliation as comprehension spread on Miss French’s face.

“I see,” she said, crossing her arms and adopting a defensive tone. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Gold, that I am not ready to resort to prostitution to pay my rent-”

“That is not what I meant,” he said, so softly that it caught her off guard. “I’m not asking for sex.”

She went quiet again. When she spoke, her voice hadn’t relaxed one bit and her arms still protected her chest. “When a man asks me to- how did you put it?”

He opened his mouth to beg her not to say it out loud.

She beat him to it.

“To ‘talk sexually’ with him…”

Gold closed his eyes in shame. This had been a terrible idea.

“…In exchange for my rent, you do understand why my mind would immediately go to the worst case scenario, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he sighed, looking anywhere but at the little librarian who was standing behind a barricade of books. She had a fierce expression on her face, as if she had nothing to be ashamed for. Yes, she was three months behind on her rent; public funds had been cut and the only thing keeping the library from closing its doors was Belle French’s stubbornness. She was still working part time, despite the fact that the Mayor was no longer paying her to do so. Without another source of income, keeping up with the bills had become a challenge and, three months ago, had finally become impossible. But still, she had done nothing wrong. Mr. Gold, on the other hand, was taking advantage of her situation to extract sexual favors from his tenant, a woman who’d rather starve than let a town go without books.

“I’ll clear my things and vacate the property by the end of the week,” Miss French announced. Without another word, she dropped back into her chair and continued to check returned books for damaged pages.

That was his cue to leave and never again come into the library. Changing towns wouldn’t have been an overreaction, come to think of it.

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when he had come this far.

Mustering the little bit of courage he had left, he confessed, “It’s for my wife.”

Miss French glanced up, but focused on the books again. She had no wish to spend another minute listening to his nonsense.

He continued anyway.

“I need help _talking_ to my wife. She’s not pl-” Gold cleared his throat. Poor choice of words. Accurate, but poor. “She’s not happy.”

Miss French didn’t say a word, leafing through books carelessly, just waiting for him to get tired and leave.

“I didn’t think you’d be… easy,” he clarified. “I didn’t- I _don’t_ think poorly of you. Never have. I just assumed… I thought you wouldn’t mind being… It wasn’t payment. It was a compensation. For your time.”

“You should talk to your wife, not me,” she said, coldly, without looking up.

“Thank you, Miss French,” he snapped. “I _never_ thought of that before!”

Now she put the books aside, looking at him as if demanding an apology for the shouting. And though she might have gotten one a few seconds ago, at the moment Gold wasn’t in the mood for her passing judgment on how he handled his marriage. Especially not when he was humiliating himself trying to save it.

“You are a last resort, Miss French,” he said. “Not a first choice.”

“Yes, there are women you can pay for this sort of thing, Mr. Gold,” she snapped back. “I am not one of them.”

“No,” he argued. “There are women I can pay to talk to me and stroke my ego. I don’t need that. I need someone…” he struggled for the right word for a second. He settled for, “Someone genuine, who has real limits that can’t be bought. Someone who’s not afraid to be blunt.”

“Did you choose me because of my bluntness?” she asked, doubtful.

“No,” he answered, but didn’t elaborate.

She raised her eyebrows. “Well then?”

“I thought you’d be discreet.”

“That’s it?”

Gold shrugged. “That’s enough.”

“You must have thought I’d be good at it.”

Gold didn’t answer.

Miss French grinned as she saw him turn red. “Do I just… look like it?”

“You read books,” he admitted, begrudgingly. “A lot.”

“So?”

She understood what he meant. Gold could read it on her face. She was just pushing his buttons and trying to make him snap.

Cautious, he answered, “I assume you read _those kinds_ of books as well.”

“ _Those kinds_ of books?” she repeated, pretending to frown in confusion.

Gold narrowed his eyes at her, hating her for the first time.

“You know what I mean,” he said, with a warning tone.

“I know,” she agreed. “You still have to say it.”

Gold kept his mouth shut.

“You want my help to talk to your wife?” she asked, challenging. “Talk _sexually_ with your wife, as you so skillfully put it? Well, take this as lesson number one. Say it.”

He still stared at her for a long moment, hoping she’s be the first to break eye contact and look away. People usually did when he looked at them like that. The angry landlord who could destroy your life.

Miss French, however, was not afraid of his glaring eyes.

“I meant,” he said, anger seething from each word, “that you probably read _pornographic_ books as well.”

The word had a terrible taste in his mouth. When it was over, he was glad to have gotten rid of it.

“I do,” Miss French answered, ignoring his discomfort. “So you’re looking for a discreet woman with limits that cannot be easily swayed, who will be honest, and who is probably familiar with the literary material on the subject.”

“This is a small town, Miss French,” he said, between gritted teeth. “My options are limited.”

She still stared at him for a moment before saying, “Not for money. A favor.”

He gripped his cane even harder and could only manage a nod.

“You have influence over the Mayor,” she said. “Can you convince her to shift the funds back to the library?”

“I can promise to do my best.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Alright. That works better for me.”

He couldn’t help but smirk. “A simple exchange of favors between friends.”

Miss French shrugged. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”

He thought about it. Truth was, he never thought he’d make it this far.

“I am not sure.”

She tapped on the cover of a book, looking around, as if the answer to how to deal with crazy married men lied anywhere but on his face.

“Well, think about it,” she finally said. “When you do know, tell me.”

“Right,” he nodded.

“And I’m not to blame if you’re disappointed,” she warned him. “Unlike you might think, I’m not a specialist in the art of dirty talking.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Belle is suspicious and Mr. Gold is reluctantly honest.

It took Mr. Gold three days to decide exactly what he wanted from her, and by then Belle had made a list of helpful resources. A short one, composed mostly of tame erotica. As far as she could tell, Mr. Gold would need to start slow. She also dared to scribble down what she thought might be good conversation starters on another piece of paper, though they seemed to her horribly cliche now that she was looking at them. She didn't even know if they were suitable to Mrs. Gold's tastes. And, as she had mentioned before, she was no specialist.

She did (and she would never admit that to Mr. Gold, no matter how many favors he offered) love to hear her lover's voice during sex. But she never thought of that as a fetish on its own. It was simply part of it, the teasing, the whispering, the instructions, the enthusiastic screaming... With so many possibilities, who could love in silence?

_Apparently the Golds can_ , she thought, imagining, not for the first time since Mr. Gold came to her with his indecent proposal, what kind of disappointing sex life they must have.  She probably claimed  to have  headaches  on a regular basis .  On the odd chance that she didn't, they  likely kept their pajamas on. Maybe he just wasn't good in bed and talking was the least of their problems. Or maybe their sex life was fine and he just wanted to have some no strings attached fun with another woman. The whole deal did sound fishy, come to think of it.

Mr. Gold came into the library, eyed her without saying hello, then limped around the front desk and went to stalk the empty floor for a couple of minutes, to make sure they were alone. It was ten minutes past closing time, but you never know. When he was sure no one would pop up from a dark corner and put them in an awkward (well, _more_ awkward) situation, he came back to the front desk and said, “I've thought about it.”

Belle looked at him for a moment, measuring him, considering for the last time if he was maybe tricking her into taking part in a personal fantasy that had nothing to do with making his wife happy. Deciding that he looked credible enough, she said, “I have to close up the library.”

Mr. Gold froze on the spot and said nothing.

“Do you mind waiting ten minutes?”

“I didn't mean- we don't have to do this _now_.”

Belle shrugged, pretending she wasn't nervous. Another twenty four hours to think about the whole arrangement was not unwelcome, but catching him off guard gave her an advantage over him that she'd like to maintain until his intentions were made clear. “I'm free now. I don't see why we should wait.”

He didn't answer and looked around, wondering if the library was appropriate enough for what they had in mind.

Belle said, “I live upstairs.”

“I'm your landlord, I know where you live,” he said, more edgy than rude.

Belle decided to be patient. “It would be more private.”

He stared at her, and she expected him to call the whole thing off. He hadn't thought it through. It was way more complicated than he first anticipated. He should try couples therapy. Or a tantric sex class, Ruby told her it could do wonders for a bad relationship.

“Fine,” he finally said. “Your apartment it is.”

*

Belle lived right above the library, which was maybe her favorite thing about the place. A couple of years ago, the apartment was actually city property and handed to the caretaker, rent free. However, by the time Belle moved into it, Mr. Gold has already acquired it, along with several other properties, due to the previous administration having to make some cuts of its own.

It was a privileged spot and it could go for a lot of money, but Belle got lucky. The place was so small that whatever extortionate amount of money Mr. Gold had planned on charging had to be cut in half. Though right now, trying to keep a distance from Mr. Gold in her tiny living room, she didn't feel lucky at all.

“You can sit down if you want,” she said, indicating the two place couch.

“I'm fine,” he answered, very dry, hands grasping the cane as he stood in front of her door, his whole body stiff. The expression on his face was of contained anger, as if Belle had coerced him into the whole thing.

Belle said, “Suit yourself,” but still went into the kitchen and got a chair for herself. Placed it near the couch. Sat down. Looked at him. “You don't mind.”

He shrugged. “It's your house.”

Belle crossed her legs, keeping her eyes on him. To his credit, he didn't look away from her face. If anything, she felt like _she_ was the one examining _him._

“So. You thought about it.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I think what I need is... suggestions.”

She waited for him to go on. He didn't.

“Could you be more specific, please?”

“What I need from you,” he said, through gritted teeth, “are some ideas of what to say. And how to say it.”

Belle thought about it. “I've made you a list of resources.”

“I need a more hands on approach.”

She stared at him.

Mr. Gold slowly lowered his eyes to stare at his shoes, muttering, “Poor choice of words. What I mean is that I need the practice.”

“You mean you want to talk dirty to me.”

He raised his eyes to glare at her.

“I understand it's far from a normal arrangement,” he said, coldly. “But if you can stop making me feel terrible about it, I'd appreciate it.”

“I maintain that you don't need classes,” Belle insisted. “What you need is to talk to your wife.”

“And I maintain that communication is a delicate subject between me and my wife,” he snapped. “I just need you to tell me what to say and let me know if I'm saying it right. Can you do that or not?”

“And what are you looking for, exactly?”

Gold didn't answer.

“I mean, what are some of your wife's...” she tried to find a word that wasn't too crude. Though maybe he'd appreciate crudeness. Maybe that was what he wanted from her. “What are some of her preferences?”

Gold opened his mouth, but closed it quickly.

“You must have thought that she was into it,” Belle said.

“Yes.”

“And since communication is an issue, I imagine she did not volunteer this information.”

“Indeed not.”

Belle waited, but he didn't say another word. She sighed, frustrated with his silence.

“Will you really make me guess the whole thing, or will you just tell me?”

Gold seemed to weigh pros and cons before answering, “I found something on her cellphone that indicates it's the sort of thing that she likes.”

Belle raised an eyebrow.

Gold said, “I don't make it a habit out of checking my wife's cellphone, Miss French. Milah wasn't in the room and I happened to be looking at it when this-” He bit his own tongue and paused. “When _something_ showed up.”

His face had turned red, but Belle could see it was not from shame. Whatever he had found on his wife's cellphone had filled him with anger.

“And I assume you didn't ask her about it.”

“As I have said twice before, and I hope I won't have to repeat myself in the future, we are not good at communicating.”

“Can I ask you what it said?”

Belle could see him working his jaw, tension spreading along with color down his neck. Clearly, he hadn't thought of sharing that much information with her and Belle wondered how exactly did he think the whole thing was going to go.

“Mr. Gold, you need to ask your wife who her daddy is between each thrust. Can you say it? Good. Now once again, with feelings.”

Knowing he wouldn't appreciate if she burst out laughing, Belle suppressed the mental image and waited for him to fish his own cellphone out of his pocket. After a moment, he handed it to her, explaining, “I forwarded it to myself.”

Belle took the cellphone from his hand and looked at what he was showing her. A text message from an unidentified number: _Come here, little slut. I want to use you._

Belle was sure that she was the one turning red now. Not that the content of the message was all that shocking. If anything, it made the list of suggestions she had scribbled on her own look like sophisticated poetry. But she wasn't expecting this. A text from a friend saying she wished her husband was a little more adventurous in bed, yes. A pornographic video she had been watching on her cellphone, maybe. Hell, even a personal add on Craigslist (“Married woman looking for man with silver tongue.”) would have been better than this.

A message from another man. Possibly, _probably_ , her lover.

_He wants to save his marriage._

Belle raised her eyes, tentatively.

Gold said, “And if you say anything about communication again, I'm going to call the whole thing off and evict you.”

“Well, that's-that's, I... your cellphone.”

She handed it back to him and watched him pocket it and not look her in the eyes.

“So, I think it's safe to assume that... she might be open. To that.” Belle cleared her throat. “Have you thought of maybe... sending a text? Since you're not comfortable saying it, writing always helps. Or, or putting up little notes around the house?”

“We have a son.”

“Isn't he leaving for college?”

“I need to do this _before_ he leaves.”

Belle asked, “Why?” before she could think about it and come to a conclusion herself. Because his wife was waiting for Bae to leave for college so that _she_ could leave too. With Mister Silver Tongue.

Mr. Gold sighed, looking absolutely defeated. “This has been a mistake. I'll give you an extension on your debt. I'm very sorry for your troubles.”

He turned to leave and his hand was already on the doorknob when Belle made a decision.

“How long do we have?” she asked.

He looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Until your son leaves for college? I assume a couple of months?”

Gold regarded her with curiosity, as if wondering if she was joking or even torturing him by dragging that uncomfortable situation on.

“Two months sounds about right?” she insisted.

“Maybe less,” he answered. “Neal's going to New York. He might want to leave earlier.”

“Can I assume we have one month?”

“I... suppose.”

Belle nodded. “Alright.” She got up and fetched two pieces of paper from her purse. “My list of resources. Most of those books you can actually find online, our library is lacking in adultmaterial. And, uhn, the second is a list of suggestions. You know. Conversation starters.”

He blinked at her, trying to make sense of it all.

“I said the deal is off.”

God, the man was stubborn.

“Yes, and I say it's not,” she replied, still holding up her lists, neatly folded together.

“You don't want to do this.”

“Neither of us want to do it!” she argued, so forcefully that it startled him. “But you want to make your wife happy and I need a paying job, so we'll both suck it up. Just-just take this-”

Belle pried his hand from the doorknob and forced the lists into it.

“Take a look at it and-and see if you like something. And see if you don't like something. It's going to be easier if you're into it. Or, you know, not opposed to it.”

He tried to say, “I-” and she didn't give him the chance.

“No, don't, just go read it and-and come ready next time.”

He looked at the papers in his hand, but didn't dare read what was in them.

Tentatively, he asked, “What are we going to do next time?”

Belle's mouth hang open for a moment too long as she tried to think of something to say. “I don't know,” she finally admitted. “I'll improvise!”

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost ONE YEAR since I last updated this story (I'm one day short of a year, actually), and suddenly I got the inspiration to finish this next chapter. I'll do my best to actually finish this story this time.

Although Mr. Gold didn't consider himself to be a pessimist, he dragged himself up the stairs to Miss French's apartment repeating, “I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this...” which was sure to set the tone for the rest of the evening. He couldn't remember why he had thought coming to the librarian for help had been a good idea in the first place.

_Because the alternative was either confronting Milah or getting a divorce lawyer. Possibly, both,_ he reminded himself.  _So suck it up. You're lucky she's agreed to help you to begin with, and not file for a restraining order._

But how much of a help would she be? This was a long shot. He was working under the assumption that Milah was unhappy with their sex life, and that was why she had found someone else to... be rougher, for lack of a better word. She hadn't even tried to talk to him first. Then again, talking had never been their strongest suit.

If she was in love with someone else-

_This will work_ , he thought, shushing the scariest thoughts away.  _At least, it will solve one problem._

He knocked on Miss French's door and waited. She greeted him with a smile that seemed a little too large to be real.

“Evening, Mr. Gold,” she said. “Did you have a good day?”

Gold rolled his eyes and entered the living room without so much as a “Hello.”

“If you're trying to relax me, you're going to need something stronger than niceness.”

“I'd offer you a shot of whiskey, but I was hoping that would be a last resort,” she said, still trying to at least seem positive. “Besides, I think this might help.”

“What might?”

“Small talk,” she answered, with a shrug.

He raised a hand, asking her to stop right there. “I think we talk too much as it is, Miss French. It won't be necessary.”

“Funny, I thought I was the teacher here.”

“Yes, but-”

“And that you would do as I say.”

“But I-”

“And I say I want to waste time in pointless conversation. Do you have a problem with that?”

Gold sighed, defeated. “Fine. I had a very pleasant day, Miss French. Thank you for asking.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Is this the truth?”

“No, it was a dreadful day.”

“Then lets try again. Good evening, Mr. Gold-”

“Miss French-”

“Good evening, Mr. Gold!” she said, louder. “How was your day? I'm not closing this door until you either answer me honestly, or leave.”

“I had a dreadful day, Miss French!” he snapped. “And thank you for asking.”

“Excellent! Was that so hard?” she asking, pushing the door shut. “Why was your day so dreadful?”

“May I ask why we're doing this ridiculous exercise?”

“Because you strike me as a person who hates talking.”

“I do.”

“And you said you have problems communicating with your wife.”

“So?”

“So I thought that we might start small. Maybe it would be easier if you got used to just talking about simple things.”

“I'm not looking for therapy, Miss French. If I wanted to work on my issues, I'd go to Dr. Hopper's office and schedule an appointment.”

She gave him a shrug. “Starting small never hurt anyone.”

“But we're on a tight schedule, and I would rather just get to it.”

Miss French crossed her arms. “Of course. Say 'who's your daddy, bitch' and I'll never ask after your well being again.”

Gold stared at her. He wished the heat spreading over his collar didn't mean he was turning as red as a beet, but he doubted. Miss French, however, wouldn't have looked more nonchalant if she had asked about the weather.

“My day was dreadful,” he answered, “because I wasted the whole afternoon trying to repair a clock only to find out it can't be done.”

“Oh no,” she said, actually looking sympathetic. “What happened?”

“How long do we-”

“What. Happened.”

“It's an old clock and they don't make the parts anymore,” he explained, hurriedly. “I thought I'd locate another one, but I couldn't.”

“That must have been very frustrating.”

“It... was. Very much so.”

She smiled at him.

Gold nodded. “That's all I got.”

“Now you have to ask about my day.”

He groaned. This was a nightmare!

“How was your day?” he recited, utterly uninterested.

“It was wonderful,” she chirped, finally moving around to go fetch a chair from the kitchen. “I got a very generous donation from Miss Blanchard. She found a few old books in the back of her closet during her Spring cleaning.”

“It's Summer,” he pointed out.

Belle laughed. “Yes. That's what I said. Turns out she is very good a procrastinating. Would you like the chair or the couch?”

“I'll stand.”

He got ready for her to fight him on it, but she didn't mind.

“Whatever makes you more comfortable,” she said, putting the chair in front of the door and leaving him standing near the couch. To have her blocking the only way out of her apartment made him feel trapped, but he didn't say anything, fearing she might dwell on the subject. She sat down. “Do you have the list that I gave you?”

Gold took it from inside his jacket and unfolded it. Ever since he left, he had been carrying it around, so that Milah (or worse, Bae!) wouldn't happen upon it and confront him. How could he explain why he had a list of flirting suggestions in another woman's handwriting? Not that he thought Milah would bother asking. When _he_ discovered her infidelity, he didn't have the balls to confront her. If Milah were in his shoes, she'd probably carry on as if nothing had happened. Maybe she'd even feel relieved to find out she wasn't the only one with a secret.

Miss French asked, “Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

She waited, as if he'd go on, but he had nothing more to say, so he didn't.

“And?” she pressed.

“And what?”

“What did you think?”

He frowned. “You mean... do I like them?”

“Well, like them, yes, that would be ideal,” she said. “Honestly, at this point, if you just don't oppose them too fiercely I'll count myself lucky.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, not taking the jest lightly.

“I read them,” he said. Then, he shook his head noncommittally. “They were not bad.”

“And do you think you could use it? I mean, with your wife. Do you think she might appreciate them?”

Gold had thought about it all week. Would Milah even like these? To her credit, Miss French had been thorough in her so called List of Conversation Starters, offering a large range to choose from. There were tame suggestions that wouldn't, in a normal day, even make him bat an eye. And there were rather racy suggestions that had made him blush like a teenage boy before he was done with the list. Given the message he had found in her cellphone, those were bound to please Milah the most, but he couldn't see them rolling off his tongue very easily.

“I think it's not entirely impossible,” he granted.

She nodded. “Okay. That's a start. Can you read them to me?”

He blinked. “Out loud?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You're here to get used to it, aren't you?”

“Yes,” he agreed, reluctantly. “Yes. Fine.” He cleared his throat and looked at the paper in front of him, running his eyes over the list, scanning for something unexciting. He raised his head. “How many should I read?”

“Choose one and lets go from there.”

“One. Yes.” That wasn't that bad. Not scary. Not at all. He located one that wasn't very intimidating and recited: “I... want to run my fingers through your hair.”

Miss French nodded – or at least it seemed so, he didn't want to look directly at her right now.

“Okay. Not bad. Try another one.”

He scanned again, skipped all the curse words.

“Uhn... I've been wanting to touch you all day.”

“Good,” she said, trying to sound polite, but only managing to sound unimpressed. “One more.”

Did she expect him to go through the whole list? What would happen when he was done with the easy ones? There were words in there he wouldn't usually say in front of a lady.

“Uhnnn... I love the way you look into my eyes.”

He waited for instructions, but she didn't say a word.

He dared to look up and arch his eyebrows at her. “Well?”

She took in a deep breath and said, “Try not reading it like it's a supermarket list.”

“That's my reading voice,” he replied, taking offense.

“Yes, I understand. It's not, you know, bad.”

Gold felt whatever hope he had die. Judging by the sound of her voice, it was bad. It was so bad that it was close to hopeless.

“I mean,” she continued, “there is your accent.”

“What about my accent?”

“It's a British accent. You know. Most women like that.”

“We've been married for twenty years, Miss French. I don't think she sees me as a mysterious foreigner anymore.”

“Right.”

“Besides, you'd be surprised with how unimpressed Englishwomen are at a Glaswegian accent.”

She smirked. “What, not a favorite?”

“Unless you sound like Sean Connery, you might as well learn American.”

She tried not to, but couldn't stop herself from laughing. When it got a little out of control, she lowered her head and hid behind a hand until she could breathe again.

“Sorry,” she said. “I imagined you doing the voice.”

“Right.”

“Can you do the voice while you read that-”

“I am _not_ doing a Sean Connery voice while I read your pornography!” he said, outraged she'd even suggest it.

“C'mon!” she insisted. “It would be an improvement.”

“Oh, and you could do it better?” he challenged.

“Better than your supermarket list? It wouldn't even be that hard.”

Mr. Gold extended the list to her.

Miss French looked at it, then at him, startled.

“No!”

“Now you have to.”

“No, I don't!” she argued. “I'm not going to do it just because _you_ can't do it.”

“I'm sorry, didn't you say you were the teacher?”

“Yes, but-”

“And that I should do as I was told?”

“But I-”

“Part of a teacher's job is to lead by example, is it not?”

“Yes, but still...”

“Still what?”

Miss French didn't answer.

He rolled his eyes. “It's very presumptuous of you to think you might give me an erection.”

He handed her the list. She hesitated, but took it from his hand.

“And what am I reading?” she asked.

“Whatever you want. I don't care.”

“Alright,” she sighed, looking at her list. “I'll just do the same ones you did. Uhn... for starters, you should get used to looking into the other person's eyes as you're saying these.” To give an example, she looked up and focused on his eyes. It didn't take her five seconds to realize that was a bad idea and look down again. “I can't do _that_. Just make a mental note. Visual contact. Works on most people.”

“Dully noted,” he said, dismissive. “And you're stalling.”

“I'm getting ready!” she snapped, defensive. “You had the whole weekend to practice yours. Turn around.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You are making me nervous. Turn around.”

Gold groaned, but moved to stare at her wall.

“So... uhn... first... uhn...” Miss French continued, all her confidence gone in the prospect of having to perform under pressure.

_See how you like it_ , he thought, vindictive.

“Stalling...” he sang.

“Teaching,” she corrected him, much in the same tone. “Pay attention. I'm just saying you might want to try some variations and see what she responds better. But... first, you're very stiff.”

“Right.”

“No puns intended.”

“I got it.”

“What I mean is that you should relax. You know. Shrug your shoulders, stretch, try to look natural.”

He could hear the sound of her zipper clanking against the plastic back of the chair and visualized her arching her back, trying to relax her muscles, her head swaying from one shoulder to the other as she stretched her neck.

“You don't want her to think you've been practicing it.”

“No, that I don't.”

“And, uhn, try to think of her when you're doing this. Don't just say the words, mind your tone. Think of what she might like. Women are different. I can't speak for your wife. Maybe she won't like this, but... uhn...”

“Yes?”

“Try to whisper them into her ear. That might get her attention.”

Gold listened closely as Miss French took a deep breath. He was about to taunt her again for stalling, when she let out a slow, humming sound of contentment that immediately got his attention. The sound a woman might breathe against your skin when you brush your lips on her neck.

“I've been wanting to touch you all day,” she said, her voice a low rasp, just above a whisper. Gold couldn't deny it was... inviting. If a woman said something like this to him, he wouldn't hesitate to come closer.

“You see, this tone is good, more personal,” Miss French explained, her words still soft. “Or she might like it a little more forceful. Look me in the eye,” she said, adding a new inflection to her words, the sound still sweet, calling him in, but firm, leaving no doubt she might grab him by the chin and force him to look up if he didn't obey. “Look me int the eye. I love it when you look into my eyes. Do you hear the difference?”

Gold nodded curtly.

“Mr. Gold?”

He wished she wouldn't say his name in that tone. It sounded so intimate like this, like something a lover might whisper inside his ear as he thrust inside her body.

“Are you still there?”

It occurred to him that she might have her eyes close, locking herself in her personal fantasy, where she was reciting those lines to a lover. A good looking young man, no doubt. A dashing hero from a story book.

“Yes,” Gold answered. His mouth felt dry, but he didn't clear his throat, fearing it might startle her. “It's good.”

“What was the last one?”

He heard her fumble with the paper. He almost told her to stop, that he'd heard enough, but didn't. He was curious.

“I want to run my fingers through your hair,” she recited, rather dully. Then started to play with the words. “I _want_ to run my fingers through your hair. I want _you_ to run your fingers through my hair.” Miss French sighed, and suddenly her words were breathless. “That could work too. I like this one. Run your fingers through my hair. She might like it if you talked a little sweet. Please, run your fingers through my hair.”

Gold heard the rustle of her own hand going through her brown locks, in a slow motion, pretending that was her lover's touch.

“You need to talk like you truly need it,” she said. “Or else, it's just words. _Please_ , run your fingers through my hair. _Please._ And then grab it-”

“I think I've heard enough,” he interrupted.

Miss French went quiet, immediately snapping out of her trance.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the ghost of her voice hanging between them, along with every sigh and every breathless sound, and that gentle humming at the beginning. That had caught his attention. He hadn't even been looking at her, but he couldn't run away from her voice. It had stirred something in him that was definitely close to arousal.

“That was good,” he said.

“Was it?” she said. “And... do you think you could... replicate that?”

Gold tapped the handle of his cane, considering it.

Tap tap tap.

It was now or never.

He tried to replicate the humming first – as good a place to start as ever – but it came out a lot more frustrated and a lot less seductive. The huffing of a dragon.

“I've been wanting to touch you all day,” he recited, the words refusing to roll off his tongue with the same elegance Miss French had demonstrated. They were quicker, more impatient.

“You sound demanding,” she told him.

Gold rubbed his forehead. “This is helpless-”

“Demanding is good.”

He dropped his hand and turned to look at her, a frown on his face. Miss French had a slight blush on her cheeks, and the corners of the paper she was holding had been crumpled by her tiny hands, but she looked close to relieved. Finally, he'd done something right and they could move on.

“Demanding is good?” he repeated, confused.

“Yeah, she might like it,” she told him, with a shrug. “You know. I'm your husband and I want your body now.”

“Isn't that misogynistic?”

“Not if she's into it. But it's nice of you to ask.”

Gold thought back to the text message.  _Come here, little slut. I want to use you_ . That didn't read like a request, quite the opposite. Maybe Miss French had a point and Milah wasn't looking for someone to say sweet things in her ear. She wasn't interested in compliments or pleading. If he whispered a command in her ear, that might take him a long way.

“I've been wanting to touch you all day,” he tried again. This time, it came out more easily. “I've been wanting to touch you all day. That's not... that bad.”

She smiled at him. “Sean Connery couldn't do it better.”

He could do demanding. He knew how to be demanding.

“Should we try another one?” she asked, glancing over the list. “We can try a different one. Ah, she might like this one. Turn around, sweetheart, I want to-”

“How about,” he interrupted, before she could get to end of the sentence, “baby steps?”

“Yes, fair enough,” she said. She handed the list over. “See if this gets results. And if it does-”

Gold raised an eyebrow at her.

Miss French scurried to her feet, and made herself busy brushing her skirt down. “I'm actually not that curious. Come back if you need more lessons.”

 


End file.
